Tom Riddle and the Sorcerers' Stones
by Achille Talon
Summary: Thanks to the love of a mother, the part of Voldemort inside Harry's scar gets a second chance. Sent back to life and back to Earth with a mission to bring down his other self, can he resist the temptation to go back to his old ways? ON HIATUS
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** _So, um… yes, a new story already. When I still haven't completed my two ongoing ones. It's the plot bunnies' fault! This story will regroup several premises I have had simmering in my brain for quite a while now. Which? Now, now, that would be telling._

 **CHAPTER 1**

The Potter House was oddly normal. Those two fools — they had all the magic in the world at their disposal, and they had decided to go with a perfectly normal Muggle home with not even one space-extension charm. In the space this stupid building occupied, the one who called himself Lord Voldemort could have built a true palace. With a shack, he could have made an empire. All it took was power and knowledge. Hogwarts taught basics that didn't seem any less logical than Muggle science, but the truth was that there were no true boundaries to what magic could do. The one limitation scholars had agreed on was the impossibility of achieving true immortality, and he, at age 16, had already defied that notion.

But no. Muggle house. Of course.

Voldemort crossed the street, his dark robes inconspicuous for the muggles on Halloween Night. A child complimented his 'costume', and it was hard to resist getting rid of the muggle pest with a rapid Killing Curse, but the last thing he needed was the ICW on his back for breaking the Statue of Secrecy. This was an assassination, not a battle. Something he would do alone, with no interference on either side — just him and the Potter infant. And he'd just see what 'power' that baby could have that the Dark Lord of the Death Eaters did not.

There were very few defenses on the house; the Potters had gambled it all on their little Fidelius Charm. Well, better not chose an absolute coward as your Secret Keeper next time, eh, Dumbledore? Who knew where that wretched Pettigrew character had gone off now. He'd last seen him scuttling away as a rat after semi-forcibly receiving his Dark Mark. As it were, the door had only a simple locking charm on it. A wordless _Alohomora_ made short work of it, and there stood James and Lily Potter.

The young man shouted at his wife to get their son upstairs while he 'held' Voldemort.

 _Hold me?_ thought the snake-man. _That is a feat only Dumbledore could achieve, you arrogant peacock. I'll—_

Voldemort's train of thought was cut off by something very surprising. James Potter had managed to muster enough hatred to cast an Unforgivable Curse — a Killing Curse, no less — at him. In the confined space of the Potters' house's corridor, there was really no room to dodge. He could have Apparated away, but instead he decided to test an old theory of his. He stood still as the green beam hit him, engulfing him in a bright flash. He felt a surge of searing cold tear at his body, a pain equal to that of splitting one's own soul — but that was something he had felt before, and this time something inside him _held_. As the light dissipated, he was stunned, yes… but not dead. This had been the ultimate test of his Horcruxes. He could survive the Killing Curse. He was _immortal_.

Stunned though Voldemort may have been, this was nothing compared to Potter's reaction. He spluttered, still pointing his wand at the deathless sorcerer, as Voldemort raised his own wand, and, a smile on his lips, said _Avada Kedavra_ with the quiet, satisfied precision of a man using his trusted old weapon.

Leaving Potter's corpse on the floor, the Dark Lord glided up the stairs and into the nursery. Lily Potter had just put her son in his crib when her attacker's wordless _Expelliarmus_ snatched her wand from her sleeve. Confident that the woman could not threaten him without it, Voldemort strode towards the crib.

"NO!" shouted a desperate Lily, throwing herself in front of the crib. "No! PLEASE! You can take me — take me instead, but not Harry! Not Harry!"

 _Oh, Mrs Potter. Why do you make it so difficult?_

"Stand aside, foolish woman", said the Dark Lord. "You need not die tonight. I am here for the boy."

Should he mention that she owed this unique chance to her old friend Severus? He had not made up his mind when she answered, still crying incoherently:

"PLEASE! No! HE'S JUST A BABY! No! Please no! TAKE ME INSTEAD!"

 _Oh, well._ "AVADA KEDAVRA!"

And a second corpse sprawled on the floor. There was the crib now, with the 'Chosen One' who'd never be old enough to learn about his fate. It was ironic, really. For the third time, he raised his wand and pronounced the dreadful incantation of the Killing Curse.

"Avada Kedavra!"

The beam hit the boy in the forehead, but the green light did not engulf him. Nor did he absorb it like Voldemort's body had. Instead it was reflected as if on a mirror -

"WHAT?" was all Voldemort managed to say before his world turned to _pain_. The spell had come back to him in the space of instant, multiplied tenfold and charged with an unknown power that rammed into his soul like _Fiendfyre_. He fought it back with all the willpower he could muster, throwing all the magic he could against that _burning_ that would not go away — he felt his soul _crack_ under the pressure, a horribly, horribly familiar feeling — the fire was expanding all around him, consuming him in body and soul—

That night, a part of Voldemort flew away from his charred body, mad and desperate. And another part, ever so small, slid down the conduit of the two-way spell he had cast and into the curse scar on little Harry's forehead. This shred of soul only had a very vague awareness of closing in on the baby boy while drowning in an ocean of pain before his thoughts blackened.

Years passed, and the Voldemort in the Scar slept in agony. He could not move, could not think, lest he come into contact with the burning walls of his tiny, tiny prison. Sometimes he was disturbed by a sharper pain — a familiar pulling of another him nearby that tried to drive him out of the scar, but only succeeded in ramming him over and over into the burning wall, sending wave after wave of pain.

And in a last surge of _Kedavra_ -induced agony, he felt himself fading.

It was a long, long time before he woke up in that shiny white limbo that Harry Potter's subconscious had shaped into King Cross's Station. He was woken up by a gentle hissing.

{Tommy, Tommy, Tommy boy…}

Who dared calling him that? And in _Parseltongue_? What was going on? What had he been - where was he - he felt all _weird_. In a glance, he realized he was a mangled, barely human creature lying on an unnaturally white floor. Crouched beside him was a black-haired woman wearing a white dress, whose features were oddly familiar to him. He'd never seen that woman, not truly, but he felt as though he'd always known her.

"Mother?"

The words had escaped his mouth before he could eve think properly. The strange woman appeared delighted.

"You know me! Oh, Tom, Tom…"

"What… What happened? Am I… dead?"

"Not… really", Merope said in just the oddest voice. "You… you are not _whole_."

"No… I'm not. I created… Horcruxes." _Damn it._ He _shouldn't_ have been surrendering his information to a stranger — or a person he'd have called a stranger if he'd been in his right mind. And yet, he went on: "Do they tether me to the land of the living still? Did it work?"

Merope had tears in her eyes.

"No", she said softly, "Tom. _You_ are the Horcrux. Or rather, the part of your soul inside the Horcrux. It's… complicated. You see, when you… when you tried to kill Harry Potter, you create an accidental Horcrux, of sorts. Now it's been destroyed, and here you are. But your other self, the Master self, still walks the Earth."

Riddle was aghast. The possibility that the soul pieces inside Horcruxes might be intelligent — that they might have their own sense of self — had simply never occurred to him. He thought cutting off a bit of soul would be analogous to cutting off an unessential body part. He'd confusedly read the piece of soul in a Horcrux could not Move On, but what of it? What did he care if some old shed skin of his lingered in limbo? Being that bit of old shed skin rather changed his perspective.

"Mother… What's going to happen to me now?"

Merope seemed like she was about to break down crying, but she held back. She answered:

"If I hadn't come here? Then you'd simply have stayed here forever. But I have been watching you, Tom. I knew this would happen one day, and I prepared."

Only one phrase could answer this. It was so alien to him that Voldemort felt weird and awkward as soon as it escaped his mouth, but he couldn't help it:

"Oh, Mother… Thank you! Thank you… ever so much."

The woman in white bent down and took him in his harm, cradling him.

"So you will take me with you?" he asked, hopeful. "On? Tell me… How is it?

"Tom… I'm sorry. But I can't. _He_ says that there is a Prophecy about you. That only you can bring down your other self — either to make him renounce his ways, or to send him here where he can do no more harm."

"Renounce his ways? _My_ ways? But Mother…!"

Voldemort cut himself off mid-sentence. The silliness of his whole situation had just struck him. He, a wretched hybrid of a baby and his corrupted adult self, had just been about to whine for his Mommy to let him gleefully murder a while longer. That… wouldn't do.

"Tom… You need to understand… _Please_ understand. You cannot go on like you used to."

"Why not? There is only power, and those too weak to seek it. I reached for that power every way I could. I tried to build a future for myself, as glorious as I could make it. To show them. To show myself. To… to show you. I did great things, things no wizard dreamt of before!"

"And for good reason." she shushed him. "Tom, there is good in this world, and evil, though you loathe to admit it."

"Pah!" he said out of instinct. "Nobody ever showed _me_ any love!"

Merope didn't answer her son. She just _stared_ down at him.

"…Oh."

"Please, Tom. Do it for _me_. Even at your very worst, I watched you, and still I loved you and hoped… hoped against hope… Please, please don't disappoint me."

There was a moment of silence.

"What must I do?"

"I have studied old magic, magic the living have forgotten. I can restore your soul and make a body for you."

"And?"

"You will be sent back to the living world. I don't know what you must do. But your goal is to stop your other self from winning this war, and save people as many as you can until them. Can you do that for me?"

The Voldemort in the Scar, who was coming to the distinct realization that he was not Voldemort anymore, but rather Tom Riddle once again, nodded.

Merope smiled wistfully at him. She leaned down and kissed him on the forehead, and she said:

"Good luck, sweetheart."

An explosion of warmth engulfed him as he drifted into a sleep that was unlike anything he'd known for fifteen years.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** _It took me a while to decide where I wanted to take the story. I had a completely different version of his chapter half-written down before I decided to start all over again, changing Tom Riddle's body and thereby the whole development of the plot. Naturally, reviews are much appreciated, tell me what you think, whether good or bad!_

 **CHAPTER II**

In a brutal ache, his senses snapped into focus. And he knew pain. He was lying facedown in leaf-covered dirt. Every inch of him ached, and he felt an inexplicable pain on his forehead. His whole body was not only painful, but… _different_. It was hard to lay his finger on it, but he felt warmer than he had in decades, even though the air was chilly and the ground was cold and hard. He felt physically stronger, as well, and, perhaps oddest of all, his aching face in the dirt didn't feel anything like it had before. His skin was tender, rather than the hardened leather it had become as he had morphed into a frightening demon over the years. He felt an odd pressure in the middle of his face, and it took him some time to realize he once again possessed a fully fledged, protruding nose rather than two snake-like slits. There was an odd pain in his temple — some implement or other, cutting into him.

He was about to open his eyes and get up, when he heard a voice. He was not alone. And it was a voice he knew very well.

"My Lord… my Lord…"

It was Bellatrix's voice, sounding worried. Her voice was a bit raspier, perhaps, than it had been before. Still, it was a comfort. He would have answered, but he remembered that his other self — his real self — was still alive, and that he was inhabiting a restored body. Perhaps Bellatrix would not recognize him in this state. Best to stay silent, at least until he could gauge his situation more fully.

Without opening his eyes, he focused on the sensations other than pain. He felt a pressure on his chest, like a wand stored in his robes. It was not his old wand (the length didn't match), but he could do with any wand, at this point. Bellatrix moaned again, after a ruffling of robes that let him presume she had crouched down a few feet away.

"My Lord?…"

"That will do", said a sharp and raspy male voice.

It was his own voice, Tom realized with a start. It sounded quite different from the way he heard himself speak, but he recognized it from the occasional Pensieve memory he'd reviewed.

More footsteps. Several people were backing away from the same spot. Desperate to see what was happening and why, Tom opened his eyes by a millimeter. His other self, looking even ghastlier than he remembered (had he made _another_ Horcrux?), was getting up, various Death Eaters hurrying away around him while only Bellatrix remained by his side, kneeling. All this was apparently happening in a clearing of the Forbidden Forest.

Satisfied with what he hard learnt, Tom closed his eyes again.

"My Lord, let me…" said Bellatrix's voice.

"I do not require assistance", said the older Voldemort coldly, and though he could not see it, Tom pictured Bellatrix withdrawing a helpful hand. "The boy... Is he dead?"

Tom Riddle resisted the urge to gasp. There was only one other explanation. The magic that had sent him back had allowed him to inhabit another's body, rather than to create him a new one. And whomever he was now possessing, his other self had just killed. Worryingly, that meant he stood an unpleasant chance of risking getting eaten by Nagini. Then again, perhaps they'd just leave him here to rot. Before he knew for sure, he opted to stay still.

"You," said Voldemort, and there was a bang and a small shriek of pain. "Examine him. Tell me whether he is dead."

Tom did not know who had been sent to verify. Perhaps it would be someone important enought o act as a hostage. Either way, it'd be a good opportunity for an attack when the Death Eater was crouched down testing his pulse.

Hands, softer than he had been expecting, touched his face and felt his heart. It was a woman, breathing fast with worry and stress.

"Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?" Narcissa Malfoy whispered. It was barely audible, but her lips were an inch from his ears, her hair bent so low that her long hair touched his face.

Who was Draco? What castle? He had to think fast. Narcissa sounded worried. Now, castle had to be Hogwarts, if this was indeed the Forbidden Forest. And Draco… For a Death Eater like her to risk his other self's ire so, Draco had to be a loved one — a lover, or perhaps a young son. And they were star-cross, Draco and Narcissa. Draco had to be stuck on the other side. Narcissa didn't care for the other side's victory (the traitor!), but she cared for her son, and knew he would die if the Death Eaters broke into the castle. That had to mean the boy whose body he was now wearing had to be a member of the Order of the Phoenix, someone who, if alive, could be a decisive help in winning the battle. Interesting. So his best bet was to say yes. Maybe Draco was dead, for all he knew, but Narcissa couldn't check that until, hopefully, he was out of danger.

"Yes", he breathed back after a moment.

He felt the hand on his chest contract: her nails pierced him. Then it was withdrawn. She had sat up.

"He is dead!" proclaimed the treacherous woman.

And now they shouted, now they yelled in triumph and stamped their feet, and through his eyelids, Tom saw bursts of red and silver light shoot into the air in celebration.

"You see?" screeched the other Voldemort over the tumult. "Harry Potter is dead by my hand, and no man alive can threaten me now! Watch! _Crucio_!"

Damn, thought Tom in the split-second as the beam of red magic travelled through the air. His other self was smarter than he'd given himself credit for. He didn't _quite_ trust Narcissa. If he was alive, then the curse would force him to thrash and scream, revealing himself; and if not, then his Death Eaters would never be the wiser — their Lord was just desecrating a despised enemy's corpse as he had done countless times before. It was clever.

Clever, but inconvenient. Ah well.

Jumping out of the way of the beam (with not as much grace as he had hoped; he was not yet accustomed to this new body, after all), he was on his feet. The red light of the Cruciatus Curse splashed harmlessly on the forest floor.

"WHAT?" screeched his older self over the screams of his surprised minions.

Deciding the other Voldemort wasn't quite ready to be reasoned with yet, Tom Riddle picked up what he had found to be glasses, and kicked into the air, further confusing his enemies with his newfound ability of unsupported flight. While he quickly ascended into the air, curses whizzing by, he could see three other Death Eaters turning on Narcissa. A flash of green ended her pleas. Tom felt like he shouldn't mind. The woman was a traitor, after all, even if, in this case, it had furthered his own ends. But… somehow, he couldn't quite bring himself not to care.

When he was high enough, towering over the trees of the Forest, he saw that Hogwarts was not so far away. It was obvious that a battle had already been fought there. The walls were damaged and seared in places, and bodies lay here and there in the inner courtyard.

What, goodness, just _what_ had happened since Halloween of 1981?


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER III**

 **Author's Note:** _I apologize for the shorter chapter, but I felt like this was the appropriate place to end it. I promise I will do my best to avoid gradually decreasing the chapter lengths in the foreseeable future. At any rate, whether good or bad, please review!_

—

As soon as he escaped the range of his counterpart's Anti-Apparition Jinx, Tom Riddle disapparated to the safest place he could think of: the Chamber of Secrets. For just as a Headmaster of Hogwarts could Apparate inside the grounds, so could the Heir of Slytherin Apparate to and from the Chamber — one last gift from old Professor Slytherin.

When he landed on the grimy, wet floor of his old lair, Riddle instantly closed his eyes; it wouldn't do to die again because of a bit bad luck that could make him materialize in front of his own, open-eyed Basilisk. He further commended himself on this action when he remembered that, inside this new, as-yet-unidentified body, Salandra may not have recognized her old Master, Apparation or not. To identify himself, he hissed in Parseltongue:

{Sssalandra! Cover your mighty eyesss and come… For though I wear the body of another, it isss I who have returned, your Massster, the Heir of Slytherin!}

Only the echoing dripping of droplets on the ancient stones answered his call.

{Salandra!} Riddle repeated. {Answer me!}

Again the oppressing silence. Tom realised he was not eve hearing the usual, regular breath of his old servant. Perhaps she was once again roaming the pipes — unless, perhaps, his counterpart had at some point finally succeeded in releasing her from her stone prison as she had begged him to do so many times, and that she was now free in the Forbidden Forest. Either way, he reasoned, there was no point in keeping his eyes shut any longer. He opened them, and immediately shut them again, stunned. Before him lay the whitened bones of a gigantic serpent — his old friend and servant, Slytherin's Monster, Salandra the Great Basilisk. Without even switching back to English, Tom said:

{No… No, NO! WHO?!}

Briskly circling Salandra's skeleton, Tom stopped before her large reptilian skull. Her eyeballs were long gone, having left behind empty sockets, and for the first time in his life Tom Riddle stared into those two blank eyes that had once brought so much death, face to face with his most faithful ally.

The shriveled, retracted skin around Salandra's jaw revealed another abyss. Slytherin's greatest creation had been, quite literally, defanged.

Tom was outraged. Who, who had dared destroy his most faithful and trusted companion? And who had had the spite, the _nerve_ to desecrate her awesome body, taking away her most fearsome attributes, those sharp fangs of which she had been so proud?

Riddle care little about 'dues to the dead', burials and other such things — indeed, he'd often decided to further humiliate his victims by feeding their corpses to Nagini or other non-human allies of his. Even had the Aurors or the Order stooped so low as to mutilate his fallen Death Eaters' corpses, he couldn't have cared less — efficient though they may be, they were merely minions to be cowed or manipulated, not true allies. They were expendable, easily replaced. But the Basilisk… she had been something else. Unique. Venerable. A servant, yes, but in the way a king served an emperor. There had been respect, even trust and a sort of affection, between the Slytherin boy and the great serpent. To see her so disrespected roused the same anger and outrage within him as if he, Voldemort, had himself been disrespected.

In a feat of conjuring that took even more of out him because of the mismatched wand, Riddle created an immense dark green shroud which gently fell down to cover the body of Salandra.

In the back of Tom Riddle's mind as he walked away was the thought that he should probably harvest some of the Basilisk's hide and bones, whose help in advanced potions would be invaluable… but he wasn't sure he really wanted to, in the end. Dismissing the uncomfortable thought, Riddle whispered a few words of Parseltongue at one of the snake pillars which adorned this part of the Chamber, opening a cabinet he'd built long ago.

The preservation charms he'd cast forty years ago (Or was that fifty years now? How long had he been… out? One more thing to research.) may have been advanced for a student, but most of them had not held for more than a decade. Dust and grime covered his old desk of conjured bronze and the shelves covering the walls of the small room.

However, _those_ charms had mostly been decorative. The really important items were kept in pre-enchanted urns and phials obtained through his Knights of Walpurgis. Grinning faintly, he opened the drawers of doors of the cupboards with a wave of his wand (he _could_ have done it manually, but then what was the point in being a wizard?). He pulled out a vial phial of Star Grass Salve he'd brewed long ago and drank it in one gulp. He instantly felt better, though a dull numbness remained. Noticed that his forehead was still hurting, he poured a few drops of Essence of Dittany on the small jagged wound, which stopped the bleeding but, to his surprise, did not quite erase the strange scar.

In another drawer lay a wand of blackthorn with a core of dragon heartstring — a fallback wand, stolen from a pathetic young Gryffindor when he was thirteen. Picking it up, he held it in his left hand while still gripping his host's one in his right. He almost immediately discarded the blackthorn wand. Oddly — for at the time he'd selected that one as an acceptable match — he found the other one to still be a better fit.

This sparked up Tom's curiosity on the identity of his new body's former owner. Wishing he'd researched some kind of Mirror Charm during his former life, Tom got to work on transfiguring one of the cabinet doors into a looking glass, which took longer than he should have because he insisted on creating an elaborate snake-shaped frame for the glass, out of pure pride. Once it was done, he took in his new appearance. To his surprise, he recognized it.

"JAMES POTTER?" he screamed (immediately thankful that the Chamber was soundproof). "But how?…"

However, he quickly realized the more probable truth. _Ah_ , he thought. _The boy grew up to oppose me just like his mother and father… Well, of course; the curse bounced back, did it not? And to survive the Killing Curse, that is a feat that was undreamed of before me. No doubt the brat grew up adored as a hero of the Light. A perfect arch-enemy for my other self._

After these reflections, he much less intellectually remarked that Harry Potter's clothes were torn and dirty, and, either way, in rather bad taste. Discarding them, he expertly rewove the fabric into the sober black robes he'd taken to wearing his later life. As an afterthought, he vanished the hood, which too obviously identified him as a Dark Wizard, whereas simple black robes could be seen as merely formal.

For he had no intention of returning as Lord Voldemort, or as Tom Marvolo Riddle for that matter. Whether he would masquerade as this grown-up Harry Potter remained to be seen — he needed to know, before he came to a decision, whether Harry had any close friends left who could notice a change in behavior or ask him embarrassing questions he wouldn't know the answers to. But either way, it wouldn't do for Dumbledore's ilk to recognize him and thereby ruin his plans.

His plans.

He _had_ no plans. Just a goal, and a vague one at that. This was new. He couldn't think of a single time in his life where he truly did not have any plan whatsoever.

It was both distressing and refreshing.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER IV**

Having formed a rough plan, and counting on his wit to get by further, Riddle in Harry's guise ascended the stairs out of the Chamber of Secrets and found himself out of the girl's bathroom and into the drafty corridors of Hogwarts, where the signs of recent battle were still evident in places. What had happened? Even the portrait frames lining the walls were empty.

The most likely place to find people, Tom reasoned, was the Great Hall.

The Moving Staircases were no inconvenience to the Heir of Slytherin. Semi-sentient magical artifacts, such as the Goblet of Fire or, yes, the Staircases, could be Confunded, he had found, and even Imperiused into submission. One more bit of magical arcana that all others had been too _moronic_ to see.

The Great Hall was a sight to see. It had obviously been turned into some kind of makeshift infirmary, and upon further notice, many of the laying bodies had the stillness of death.

The first student to notice him was a somewhat portly young boy. His face was vaguely familiar to Riddle; he assumed he was the descendant of some pureblood he'd known in the past.

"Harry? You're back?" asked the boy. "What happened?"

Affecting to be stunned, left hand clasped on his forehead, the fake Harry answered in an uncertain voice:

"Tried to kill me… again… I don't know what hap-… I feel…"

"Who?" asked the boy.

Tom had been about to answer 'You-Know-Who'; he changed his mind in a split-second as it occurred to him that the new leader of the Light surely would have followed Dumbledore's advice not to fear the name of 'Lord Voldemort'.

"V-Voldemort…" he moaned pathetically, blinking seemingly out of control. "Forest… Cursed, I don't kn… My memory's a jumble…"

"Oh! Madam Pomfrey! Harry! Harry's been cursed!" Neville yelled across the room.

All those conscious and sane turned their head towards their supposed savior as a middle-aged witch (whom he vaguely recognized as a Hufflepuff girl who'd attended Hogwarts around the same time as him) put the patient she was working on in stasis before hurrying across the room.

"Mr Potter! Lie down, please!" said Pomfrey, trying her best to stay calm and collected despite the obvious strain in her voice.

Tom did as she asked, intentionally stumbling as he did so.

"Now, Mr Potter. Do you remember what curse was used on you?" she asked.

"Y-yes… No… It… what curse?"

"Oh dear, you're in shock. What do you remember, Harry? It's important! What do you remember?"

Blubbering even more, Tom answered: "I… Hogwarts?… the battle… Voldemort, got to… got to…"

"Mr Potter! What day is this?"

"I… birthday… my letter?"

"Your Hogwarts Letter?" asked a startled Pomfrey. Clearly, she thought, this boy's memories were deteriorating fast.

"…Hogwarts…"

"Mr Potter! Focus! Answer my question! In what House are you?"

"…my House… friends… gotta… where are…"

All around the lying Potter — who was lying in more than one way — and the crouched mediwitch, the valid had gone silent, staring at the proceedings. However, at this, a young brown-haired witch and a male student (red-headed, freckled wizard whom Riddle wagered was a Weasley) cut through the crowd. The brown-haired witch frantically told Pomfrey:

"Madam Pomfrey! We're his best friends! He wants us! Perhaps if we could talk to him-"

"Yes", the nurse answered, "it could be beneficial. Go ahead. Try not to upset him."

The two students leaned over him with forced warm smiles.

"Harry, mate, can you hear me?" asked the Weasley.

"…huh…" rasped Tom. "…who…"

"It's me! Ron!"

"…Ron… Weasley…?"

"That's right! You remember? All the fun we had… the tough times too…"

"…fun… adventures…"

"Like Hagrid's Dragon, first year! Quidditch!"

"…Quidditch… I remember, Ron, I… who… where am… what's going on?"

The girl stepped in: "Harry, you're in Hogwarts. You went out to fight Voldemort, and he cursed you. Do you remember?"

"…Curse… yes… why am I fighting… who are you?…"

"Oh, Harry! I'm Hermione! Hermione Granger, don't you remember me?"

"C'mon Harry", said Ron, "how can you remember me but not Hermione? You know? The gorgeous girl with all the brains!"

Tom thought he saw 'Hermione' blush at the praise. And, hm. Hermione Granger. A common last name, not pureblood, but the first name was too extravagant for a muggle family… Half-blood, then. Unsurprising, Harry would be one as well.

"…Yes… Hermione… why was I fighting…"

"Harry, You-Know-Who's attacking Hogwarts! He'd said he wouldn't attack for an hour… giving you time to turn yourself in, the _fiend_ , but the hour's run out. He'll be back any time know. Harry, you've got to get up, we've got to fight!"

"Oh, right… right… gotta fight… battle… Bloody hell!" he said, sitting up.

Walking back closer to him, Madam Pomfrey asked cautiously:

"Are you feeling better, Mr Potter?"

"Oh, hell yes! Mind's still a bit foggy, but it's all snapped into place. He's coming! I made him angry, when I escaped, he's coming, we've got to prepare! Everyone!"

"Mr Potter, I'm not sure it's appropriate for you to go out and fight… I'm still not sure what that curse you spoke of…"

"To hell with the curse! The _murderer_ of my _parents_ is coming, and there's no way I'm letting him take away Ron and Hermione from me too!"

That was what a Gryffindor hero of the Light would say, right? Ah… perhaps that was a bit too Hufflepuff. He adjusted:

"…or anyone in this room!"

After a floating moment, a clamor rose. Wands were drawn from robes and holsters, the ghosts and portraits struck a defensive pose, and even the injured tried to stand, fists raised.

This was just in time, too, as a tremendous explosion opened the doors of the Great Hall, revealing an enraged Lord Voldemort surrounded by his remaining Death Eaters.


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER V**

 **Author's Notes:** _And here we go again. The first "Voldemort Vs. Tom" duel is something I really wanted to get right, hence the wait. I apologize for all character deaths that may happen in this chapter and the following, but a battle is a battle._

* * *

The Death Eaters had apparently decided that the injured would make good first targets. Battle broke out as the valid rose to defend their loved ones or wards. Realizing that Pomfrey (as their only qualified Healer) was an essential asset, to be kept safe throughout the fight, Tom Riddle quickly stunned her before encasing her in a starry, nigh-impenetrable bubble of magic — the same spell he'd just seen his counterpart had used on Nagini. The why of this, as a matter of fact, was a mystery to Tom. Why even bring Nagini to the battle if she was not allowed freedom of movement? He decided to try and capture his old familiar to get answers out of her. Having settled on this goal, he flew towards Voldemort, who had already taken down a tall witch in deep purple robes — Professor Septima Vector — trying to get to him.

"How many times am I going to have to kill you, boy?" screamed the Dark Lord in his grating sibilant voice, before he sent a wave of ink-black magic Tom's way.

Vaguely recognizing a nasty Greek curse that would, if memory served him right, dissolve its target into a smoking puddle, Tom blocked with a three-layered Shield Charm, and answered, in his best impression of a cocky Gryffindor teenager:

"Don't you get it? I'm immune to death! You tried to kill me as a baby. It failed. Now you try again, with the same spell no less — why would you expect the results to be any different?"

While talking, Tom had dodged a bone-breaking hex and sent back a Sumerian Stunning Spell, which Voldemort expertly deflected onto the nearby Filius Flitwick, who fell in a heap and was promptly finished off by Bellatrix, whom he'd been duelling.

"Fool!" thundered Voldemort. "You know perfectly well that what happened that night was a _fluke_! Merely the result of your dear mother's _love_ and _kindness_."

And with those two spitted words, the puzzle of what had happened on Halloween 1981 finally fell into place for Tom. But, before he could examin the ramifications of it properly, he had to banish his other self secure Nagini.

"DEPULSO MAXIMA!" yelled Tom on top of his lungs (no need to get all Gryffindor and show off by casting silently, when it would present no advantage in this situation).

A gust of magical force, invisible but hard as steel, burst from his wand and flung Lord Voldemort (along with quite a number of Death Eaters and the limp bodies of Filius Flitwick and an unidentified female student) through the open gates.

Before Voldemort could rush back inside the castle, Tom extended his imperfect holly and phoenix wand and felt for the ancient magical wards of Hogwarts. He found them strained and ragged, a hole blasted right through them by his counterpart and the Death Eaters. Weaving an overpowered shielding spell into the damaged enchantments, Tom reformed a temporary barrier. Having apparently caught his line of thinking, the half-blood girl, Hermione, who had managed to but down her opponent (some masked Death Eater he didn't recognize), joined in on his effort, while the Weasley boy and other students he didn't know moved to form a protective line between the two of them and the remaining Death Eaters.

Voldemort retaliated, and, with an animal-like scream, rammed magic into Tom and Hermione's barrier. It was not a true, codified spell — it was raw magic that the Dark Wizard was bending to his will on instinct, as only the most skilled of sorcerers could do. But Tom, being the same powerful sorcerer in another body, could do the same. Hermione Granger was soon forced to step back and watch as the two wizards threw their magics clashing along the invisible wall's surface, locked in a battle of wills. Tom was frowning in concentration, but never taking his eyes off of Voldemort, whose rictus of anger was quickly turning into an expression of desperation and disbelief. In the small part of his mind still free to conduct deductive reasonings (as most of it was currently busy controlling the flow of power), Tom reasoned that Harry Potter, whilse skilled, must have been nowhere near this level when he and his Voldemort self had last duelled.

One by one, the other fighters had interrupted their battle and turned to watch the extraordinary duel unfolding before them.

Taking advantage of a momentary relapse in the panting Dark Lord's spell's intensity, Tom turned to Hermione and commanded:

"You! Catch the snake! Take her to safety — don't kill her!"

Hermioned looked a little surprised but nodded once before turning her attention to the floating orb. Tom then added:

"Someone! I need another wand. Anything. Quick!"

Someone tossed him an acceptable laurel wand (no time to determine the core yet), which he seized in his left hand. Two-handed casting was something he'd spent many a lonely evening practicing in his designated corner of the Slytherin Common Room, and even while channing untold power through the holly wand on his right, he still managed a decent Cruciatus Curse. Not his best attempt at the spell, certainly, but still a strong-enough Unforgivable to pierece through the magical barrier in Voldemort's general direction.

The red-eyed warlock was forced to dodge, and, having his concentration broken cut off power to his attempt at forcing entry back into Hogwarts. This split-second lapse was enough for the newly-recharged protective enchantments on the ancient castle to stabilize. Finally able to act on the warning signals it had been receiving all throughout the duel, the system sent out a surge of electric-yellow power that blasted into Voldemort, knocking his wand right out of his hand.

Realizing he was defeated, Lord Voldemort allowed himself one last cry of hatred and frustration before Disapparating to locations unknown.

Abandoned by their Lord, the Death Eaters (those, that is, who had not been beaten in battle or blasted out of the castle by Tom's earlier banishing spell) soon dropped their wands in surrender, including Avery Junior, who had been fighting Hermione for access to Nagini.

The Second Battle of Hogwarts was won.


End file.
